Islay: Lords of the Isles

In the Age of the Automobile, Islay has become a remote place. An island in Scotland's Inner Hebrides, Islay (pronounced EYE-luh in English, EE-la in Gaelic) sits just off the Kintyre coast, only eighty miles from downtown Glasgow as the crow flies. Unfortunately, such directions work only for crows. As the visitor drives, it's a hundred miles of narrow country lanes twisting through the mountains of Argyll, followed by a two and a half hour ferry ride.

Remoteness, however, has its virtues. Little of the 20th century has rubbed off on Islay; it has no population explosion, no ugly suburbs, no sprawl. Instead, the thirty-five hundred Ileach (Islay natives) live in five compact, neatly kept villages and a scattering of hamlets. Their whitewashed stone cottages pack tightly together along each village street, then descend to tiny harbors with brightly painted fishing boats. Each village center has a fine old hotel with a good pub, a butcher, a baker, and a post office shop. School children play in the lightly traveled streets, laughing and calling to each other in Gaelic. Three of the villages - Bowmore, Port Ellen, and Port Charlotte - are linked by two-lane roads, nearly traffic-less, crossing miles of mountains and moorlands. The other two villages, the remote fishing villages of Portnahaven and Port Wemyss, are linked to the rest of Islay by a good old Scottish Highlands single lane track running along the shore of Loch Indaal.

Islay wasn't always this remote. Eight centuries ago Islay was in the thick of it, the seat of a great seafaring power ruled by the Lords of the Isles. Earlier still, the islands had been contested between the Norse and the Scottish kings; then the great Somerled used a fleet of long ships to settle both of their hash, leaving western Scotland from Harris to Kintyre in the control of his family. A century later his grandson Donald founded the MacDonald Clan that dominated the Highland Gaels for five centuries, organizing the Western Isles into a nearly-independent Gaelic territory that paid only the most nominal of lip service to the far-away Scottish King. Seventy years after that, Donald's grandson John awarded himself the title "Lord of the Isles" and set his capitol on Islay, with a great castle on the coast at Dunyvaig and an administrative center in the middle of the island at Finlaggan.

Under the MacDonald Lords, Islay became the center of a unified Gaelic governance that controlled the Irish Sea. At Finlaggan the Lords held council with representatives from all corners of their territory, acting as judges and lawgivers. From their cliff-top castle at Dunyvaig the Lords used their sea might to maintain their law and project their power throughout the West of Scotland. They used this power to build up a Gaelic civilization, endowing religion and the arts by refounding Columba's great monastery at nearby Iona. For the first time since the Viking invasions half a millennium earlier, the rich and unique tradition of Gaelic art flourished.

The Lordship of the Isles lasted a bit over a hundred and fifty years, a brief demonstration of what a Gaelic civilization might have achieved. Unfortunately, Islay's MacDonald Lords were in fundamental conflict with the Norman-descended Kings of Scotland — in interests, in law, and in culture. As the Scottish Kings became more feudal, more autocratic, and more European, the Celtic MacDonalds, with their fierce family loyalties and deep traditions, appeared more and more as dangerous anachronisms. There were practical dangers as well; the Islay MacDonalds controlled the sea lanes from the Outer Hebrides to Northern Ireland, so that an alliance between the English King and the Lord of the Isle would encircle the Scottish King with his enemies. In 1493 Scotland's King James IV finally gained the upper hand, and stripped the Lord of the Isles of his title and lands. Fifty more years of MacDonald struggles had no effect beyond impoverishing Islay. By 1550, Islay was just another remote island, owned by an absent Campbell lord.

Today, the ruins of the Lordship of the Isles are scant but memorable. At Finlaggan, foundations of the Lord's hall and chapel rise above the grass on an island in the middle of a loch, surrounded by stark hills and heath. Within the roofless chapel, medieval gravestones show the strong, rich carvings of mailed warriors, great swords, and sturdy ships — weathered reminders of the glories of the lordship. At Dunyvaig, only a few sections of stone wall top the coastal cliffs of the Bay of Lagavulin. A few miles beyond Dunyvaig, the ruins of Kildalton Church protect more of the beautifully carved medieval gravestones, as well as an older treasure - the twelve foot high, richly carved Celtic High Cross of Kildalton, erected around 800 AD.

In modern times other Lords have succeeded the Islay MacDonalds — the Lords of Whisky. Dunyvaig no longer dominates the Bay of Lagavulin; the 1817 Lagavulin Distillery does, with its old whitewashed stone walls rising from the rocky bay shore, topped by the distinctive square cupolas of its malt drying kilns. Eight such distilleries (including one on the adjacent island of Jura) rise from Islay's rocky shores.

And this is not ordinary whisky. Islay whisky is the epitome of Scotch whiskies, heavy, rich, and dark. It is Scotch whisky with a Gaelic tongue, whisky made up of peat smoke riding on the sea air, with a twang of seaweed. "Workers are steeped in the industry, and their feelings are deep for it," states Donald Renwick, General Manager of the Lagavulin plant. Bruichladdich's (prn. brook laddie) Jim McEwen puts it, "We are not in charge; we only hold the tradition for a generation, before we pass it on." Sitting by a crackling peat fire and sharing a wee dram of twelve year old single malt whisky, he speaks with Gaelic eloquence on the art of cooperage, the beauties of Islay, and the fine water and peat smoke that gives the island and the whisky its distinct character.

These Islay Whisky Lords started modestly. McEwen left the Bowmore village school to become a cooper's apprentice at the local distillery; like many of the Ileach, McEwen speaks gently, with a clear accent shaped by the faintest Gaelic lilt — not surprising, when you consider that two-thirds of the Ileach were Gaelic speakers as late as 1961. Bunnahabhain's (prn boona-hahven) John McClellan, another Islayman, started his career as a fisherman until entering the distillery business and working his way up. Laphroaig's Ian Henderson worked as a ship's boiler engineer when he first tried a dram of what his captain called "Leapfrog"; now he has sipped his distillery's product with the Prince of Wales.

Lagavulin, Laphroaig, Bowmore, Isle of Jura, Ardbeg, Bruichladdich, Bunnahabhain, Caol Ila — these are the great distilleries of Islay. Most have a similar look. A long, low stone building, nearly two centuries old, rises from the sea, whitewashed, with the distillery name painted on it in bold black letters. Taller stone buildings set behind it, also whitewashed, and the courtyard between them is filled with wood barrels imported from America or Spain, waiting to be filled. To one side sit two or three high square towers with pyramidal roofs, topped by peculiar square cupolas reminiscent of pagodas — kilns once used to dry the malted barley, still preserved as a symbol of traditional whisky distilling. At Laphroaig and Bowmore they are more than a symbol, and once a week the rich reek of peat smoke and roasting malt spills out from these ancient plants. Beyond this central complex stretch the bonded warehouses, storing decades of production until their time is right; the youngest Islay whiskies see no daylight until their tenth birthday, and many Islay casks are still yielding up their treasures thirty years later.

The foundations of the Islay distilleries are lost in the depths of time, lost with the systematic thoroughness of a reformed criminal hiding his traces. The art of distilling uisge-beathe came from Ireland to Islay under the Lords of the Isles, and from there spread throughout the Highlands. In old times farmers would harvest their barley in the fall, then spend the off-season malting the barley, reducing it to mash, and distilling it. This made economic sense; instead of moving massive tons of low value grains over horrible roads and dangerous sea lanes, they moved a few hogsheads of high value whisky instead.

Such farmers considered evading taxes (levied since the 17th century) to be a point of pride, and Islay farmers were particularly good at it. However, there were advantages in going legit, particularly the ability to market in the Lowlands and England. As the 18th century came to a close, one Islay distiller after another would creep out of the shadows, buy a licence, pay his taxes, and instantly convert from smuggler to respected businessman. The oldest distillery, Lagavulin, occupies the site of an 18th century smugglers' haven, and no one really knows its true age.

Islay's whitewashed stone distilleries were built at about the same time as its bright, whitewashed villages. Early in the 18th century the Campbells of Shawfields — a Glasgow merchant family — bought a destitute Islay from the aristocratic but bankrupt Cawdor Campbells. Elsewhere in the Highlands, clan chiefs were transforming themselves into English-speaking noblemen, going for fast cash by converting their lands into giant empty sheep walks — a human and economic disaster known as "The Clearances." But in Islay, the Shawfields Campbells worked patiently over generations to develop a sustainable agriculture and create permanent jobs. The Campbells created five compact harborside villages, believing (correctly as it turned out) that well-built, tightly nucleated settlements would supply humane housing while attracting industry. Not that they sat back and waited for industry to come to them — the Campbells used their wealth to build fisheries, harbors, warehouses, good stone cottages, flax mills, stores, churches, even schools for their Gael tenants. And they encouraged industrious and ambitious "moonlighters" (moonshiners) to get licenses, pay the tax, and build up their tiny distilleries. Even the local Presbyterian minister praised the result, writing in 1844 that the legal distilleries "afford a great deal of employment . . . the more distilleries [the local people] have the more temperate they become. There is not one gallon of whisky drank now for fifty that were drank [twenty years ago]."

Two centuries later, Islay continues to benefit from these visionary innovations. While most of the Hebrides struggle with depopulation and permanent recession, Islay remains brisk and prosperous. Islay celebrates its unique heritage with an annual spring Celtic and Whisky Festival (Feis Ile agus Uisge-Beathea Ile) combines concerts, plays, fly-fishing competitions, nature walks, and Ceilidhs, with distillery tours, whiskey tastings, and gourmet Scottish food. On one night the Port Ellen town hall rings with the laughter and music of a ceilidh, a celebratory Gaelic jam session, accompanied by a tasting competition of the seven Islay single malt whiskies. Next day, a distillery's cask master syphons thirty year old whisky straight from the wood; later, guests enjoy local scallops in whisky cream sauce and twenty year old Lagavulin, while a piper plays from nearby Dunyvaig. A master piper gives a concert from the great house of the Shawfields Campbells; the Port Ellen Maltings entertains its guests by roasting venison in their peat fired malt ovens. But the best moment might be a simple sunset from the Bowmore harbor, the golden light reflecting from the whitewashed stone walls of the distillery. "I like to end my Fridays with a cigar and a dram on the porch, as a reward for a good week," says Jim McEwen. There are plenty of good weeks on Islay.